


Mapping you

by Neverask



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Titans (TV 2018)
Genre: Bedsharing, Caretaking, Do the first part at home no prob, F/M, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Massage, Robin Jason Todd, Rose Wilson is there to give him one, Sexual Experience, TV Series, Titan's Tower, Young Jason Todd, i dunno it's not like you can really explain some things with words, intimate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:27:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23529154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neverask/pseuds/Neverask
Summary: in which Rose decides that Jason needs someone to take care of him, just for the night, after he wanted to off himslef by jumping from the roof.I mean, who doesn't need a hug after that?
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Koriand'r & Garfield Logan & Raven & Jason Todd & Rose Wilson, Jason Todd/Rose Wilson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	Mapping you

Jason was surprised to see her back. You can’t honestly say that the last time they were alone in the same room went well –if you put aside the awkward kiss and her good taste in music- and only concentrate in what went wrong: the vinyl, everyone turning on him because he was the only one showing his emotions through actions and sometimes himself didn’t know what it meant.

He’s an asshole, Jason knows that. But it doesn’t mean he’ll play with someone else’s wounds. He got his own, no need to poke the bear and receive more.

So, yeah, he’s kinda surprised to see her in his room after he wanted to off himself. Just thinking about the whole moment makes his teeth grind against one another. Him being pushed by Rachel, hurt expanding inside of him, fear that she’ll finish what Deathstroke started. Deception when everybody turned on him, with a tinge of ‘I told you so’ when the other shoe dropped. He wanted to cry, scream or punch someone, himself more than anyone because of his foolishness.

But now he’s just tired. He wants to sleep it off, to cry himself to sleep, and he can’t. Because she’s here. Taking half of his bed with a book in her hands, shoes off. Her eye patch disbanded, the scar is for him to see.

_What is she doing here?_

“The fuck you doin’ in my room?” it comes harsh, and that’s what he wants. To rile her up, for her to show the same disgust they all showed, to push him aside, to treat him like he’s nothing. To leave him alone in his self-pity.

“I’m discovering your book collection. _Pride and Prejudice_ is now my new favorite.”

“Can’t you do that in your room and stop polluting my air?” _Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out._

“No.” Clear, short, inevitable. She turns a page of the book, and busies herself in it. Jason stands dumfounded in his room, jacket in hand, the poster on his wall smiling to him. But a _no_ is not what’s going to stop him from getting her out. Hell, most of the times he doesn’t know when to stop talking before someone punches him. And nobody said he couldn’t be Robin outside of costume.

“No? Didn’t you have some beef with Dick about your dead brother or whatever, instead of watching my sorry ass?” He smiles, pushing all the pain aside, bottling it up and waiting for her to go AWOL.

The answer is not what he expected.

“His name was Jericho, remember it. And oh, I still have some beef with your predecessor, birdbrain. But everyone went batshit crazy two hours ago. Gar and Rachel are on monitoring duty, they said they were watching the roof or something like that. The rest of them were running in circles, snapping at each other because _they went for the kill without proof_ , whatever that means. Looked like chickens without heads bumping into walls, so I went to the only place I knew no one would search and would offer some peace and quiet: Your room.” She turns another page, and hums a soft tune, before continuing to speak. “And for Dick, I’ll wait for him to get all his duck in a row, and then I’ll get my answers. Going now is only going to make everything explode and let ourselves be more vulnerable than we already are. I heard Daddy dearest was in the building.”

She didn’t know. She didn’t know what Dick had told him on the roof, _why_ he was on the roof in the first place, she didn’t know what happened with everyone in the Tower. _She didn’t know._

So it meant that her being here isn’t pity, it’s self-preservation. She’s staying away from fratricidal fire- with everyone going nuts, she doesn’t know if they’re going to consider her friendly or not-, and his room has its own arsenal. She chose the best place to defend herself, except maybe for Dick’s room – who’s worse than Bruce when it comes to packing weapons-. _She doesn’t know_. And that changes everything.

“The Tower’s on lockdown. I hope you ate, ‘cuz everyone went to their rooms. We shouldn’t be out except if he targets someone physically. Doors lock on the inside and you need heavy firepower to open them without a fingerprint.” He drawls, throwing his jacket on the chair and untying his boots. The pain reduces as he takes his sockets off, because company from someone who doesn’t see him a something broken seems more welcomed now. Maybe it’s just her company that seems welcomed.

“Good. I’ll take the first round. You get some Zzz’s.”

“Who says I need to sleep?” he asks bitterly, shirt going up and meeting the floor, followed be the belt, replacing his jeans with sweatpants before making his way to the bed.

“Me. You look like shit warmed over.” Her eye follows him, watching him flop on his stomach and clutch a pillow to worm him under his head.

“ ’S not’ a cool im’g, y’kno’.” Is muffled by the pillow, but soon after, silence. Jason’s breathing evens out, his back raising and falling rhythmically.

She continues to read, listening to his breathing with one ear, the other concentrated on the noise –or absence of it- in the hallway.

But the truce is short.

Some hitch of breaths, a muscle trembling in his shoulder, before the shaking really starts. Before he starts dreaming. His face is still mushed in the pillow, but his hands are clutching it tighter and tighter. Tiny moans are escaping him, voice high and strung with fear.

She closes her book and observe him, how his back is completely tense, his legs high strung like piano strings, at the verge of breaking loudly, with maybe her as a collateral damage. She weighs the pros and cons for acting, but knows deep down, that if he wakes up now, then he’ll never get back to sleep wilfully. And Robin or Jason sleep deprived will be one more problem on everyone’s shit list. 

She sighs, puts her book on the nightstand, prays for whatever god that exists that Jason won’t hate her for this, takes off her socks, fishes out her hand cream and dives in.

Throwing the covers of her side on him to cover his legs and bosom –because that idiot went to sleep _on_ the covers, without a shirt, the best recipe to catch a cold when the window is open, like she left it- she acts before he can instinctively react, asleep or not. Throwing a leg over him, she sits on his butt, and pushes his upper body down in the covers with a hand between the shoulder blades. She can feel his whole body tensing, hands unclenching the pillow to take support on the mattress, legs bracing themselves.

_He’s awake and going to throw me off. Shit._

Before he can transform her in a blue haired pancake, she rubs her palms against one another and starts. Scooting a bit back on his legs, so that his butt rests against her pelvis and thighs, she puts her thumbs on the small of his back and press, hitting the knots head on, making him spasm. She works the knots along the end of his spine, but tightens her other fingers around his waist to assault him with sensations and get him to stop thinking.

She starts humming again, to let him know who’s sitting on him, who’s taking care if his sorry ass. Her thumbs go higher, tracing his spine, massaging on either side. Her fingers go up in the air, thumbs still on his back, when she reaches his ribs, because there’s nothing more annoying than someone coming back to reality because you tickled them. She works from the end to the middle of his back, pressing her thumbs in long strokes, getting him used to the sensation. She can feel his abs clench and unclench under her fingers with each movement, how his shoulders tick when she hits a sore spot. His face is still in the pillow, but one ear is turned to her, and his arms are still braced on the mattress, palms flat and elbows bent to react at lighting speed.

To be able to work higher, his arms should be lax, but she’s not going to be the one making him loose forcefully that defensive position. She understands, hell, she’s glad he’s not completely trusting her, it means he’ll survive. All she can do is ask.

Running her hands flat against his back, she strokes the zone she worked on several times, before running her left hand on what she considers the no-hands-land. The zone you can’t reach to scratch yourself, no matter how bendy you are. She gives here a little push, and braces her other hand on the side of his head, leaning into his ear. She knows how her body pushes his in the mattress, trapping his legs and encompassing him from his butt resting against her to the hair falling on his back and face in her presence, in her warmth, how she keeps him away from spiralling.

“You think you can put the ninja moves away for a while?” she murmurs, breath directed to the strands of hair in the nape of his neck. She knows it can be a bit much, but his eyes are closed – even if he’s red from the ears to the chest- and his features are more relaxed. So his stance is more an automatic response than against her, good to know. A muffle answers her, his arms relax, and he opens them like a starfish, one hanging from the bed while the other clutches the pillow she was resting against before all of this started.

“Thank you.” Nothing condescending, because being taken care of is nothing to be blamed or mocked about. Hell, if people hugged their problems instead of fighting, the world would be a much easier place.

Her right hand joins her left, and she leans back, easing her weight back to his legs. Fishing out her hand cream, she rubs some on her hands before she smears a little bit on his back. He jumps lightly at the cold touch and she can’t help but chuckle. Cracking her knuckles, she dives right back in and attacks the bulk of the work.

The middle of his back.

Now she uses all her fingers to press from the middle to the end of his ribs, near the pectorals. She starts of easy, not wanting to cause him unnecessary pain. Then her thumbs press the knot on the left of his back, from his spine to the ribs, where he hit Conner during the fall. The spot she knows hurts like a mother fucker when moving or touched. She doesn’t stop when he hits the pillow several times, biting in his own to stop himself from giving her a new look in black and blue. She eases the pressure when she feels the knot popping, earning a jolt and a scream on his part. Stroking his back in long movements, moving her fingers along his ribs to give him something else to focus on, she leans in again, using the same trick to bathe him in warmth and give him the feeling to be in a bubble.

She murmurs near his ear, “You’re doing good.”, watching his eyes completely unfocused, left hand clenching and unclenching, as she starts rolling the muscles in his arm between her palm. She gives attention to the round of the shoulder, knowing he had supported himself before falling. His breathing is coming out ragged, he is red in the face, but he hasn’t thrown her off yet, so it means he’s not past this limits.

When his breathing has evened out, she goes back to the other side of his spine, feeling less resistance there, and uses her knuckles to search more profoundly. She hears a moan when she presses against his shoulder blade and files it in _could be used for other activities_. She turns to his right arm, going from the round of the shoulder to the wrist, alternating between her thumbs and her palms, making his muscles roll. She continues to hum, but she sees that he’s not responding to her changes in rhythm, should it be through her voice or her massage. His muscles are not clenching anymore when she changes zones.

With someone else, it can be considered normal, good even. But not with Jason, or anyone highly trained. To not have any instinctual response means a disconnection from mind and body that could lead to a dissociation episode. And that’s the contrary of what she’s searching for him.

Fitting her fingers between his and gripping them tight, she drapes herself on his back, letting her hair caress his arms and her head rest on the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades. She stays like this until she knows he’s still with her, that he maybe went under, detached from emotionally from everything that happened, but is still responsive to her, like the shudder she gets when she breaths a bit too close to his neck.

She draws back, palms flat caressing his back up and down several times, and begins to massage his shoulders, hitting sore spot after sore spot, feeling his muscles going from armored concrete to puddle of goo under her palms, before attacking his neck and skull.

The neck is a tricky part, because it’s really sensitive and in Jason’s case, is the body part the most attacked by friends and foe alike. Only her thumbs press against it, her fingers never encompassing his throat or neck. Having him let her wrap her hand around his throat would be an enormous step and would show trust. But she’s not looking for that today. Moving from his neck to his skull, she marvels on the softness of his hair, pushing her fingers in the dark mass and using her fingers to reach as much space as possible. She massages his skull, feeling the skin move on the bone, taking the hair with it.

Going from his head to the small of his back in long strokes is a signal that she’s finished with the massage part. But she’s not finished in taking care of him.

Before he can clear the fog in his head and come back completely to reality, she starts raking her nails against his skull, going from his neck to the top of his head and the other way around. The moans that comes out is surprised. 

_Now’s the time to make him feel good._

She drags her nails from his shoulders to the middle of his back, going up and down in different patterns, hitting all the pleasure spots she discovered along the way, turning his brain even more to mush. She wants to add pleasure to his meaning of touch.

She starts rocking her hips, slowly, her pelvis pushing against his butt, making his hips rock too. She knows he’s probably sporting a massive boner right now, but she’s not going to address the matter directly. Instead, she’s going to make him feel good without embarrassing him, and use his boner indirectly against him is the best way to do that. He can play it off like it never happened and she can pretend she’s not hearing him moan in his pillow.

Planting her arms against his to prevent any sudden motions, she leans in again, still rocking her hips, and gently bites his earlobe, before peppering kisses along his throat, leaving no marks on his skin, even if she’s dying to do it. _He’s not ready_. And she isn’t either. She bites the juncture between his neck and his shoulder, to sense him shudder and muffle a moan louder than the others. Her hands go from his arms to his shoulder blades, planting her nails there before smoothing it out with gentle strokes. 

Her kisses leads her to go down his back and map out every scars he has, each of them telling a story she doesn’t want to know, a claim of his trauma but also of his bravery – or stupidity, depends on the point of view-, to bite his hips, where his pants are riding low and lick the hollow of his kidneys.

She keeps a steady pace of her hips, noticing how his head is swivelling from left to right, a patch of blood where he reopened his lip wound by biting on it, the rhythm of his body stuttering. His hands clench and unclench several times, searching for anything. She thinks a weapon, anything to throw her off because of the alien sensations. It’s what she would try to do, because giving into the need of letting someone else take the wheel and take care of her one of the most intimate ways would make her flip her shit too. And she knows that Jason thinks the same on that part. That much she gathered from his behaviour and their discussions.

He’s biting on his arm to muffle his moans, trying to push himself on his elbows, to desperately take control of his body back. He looks beautiful with his back strained, head hanging low and some strands of hair plastered against his forehead. Another rock makes him fall back down, before he stubbornly tries again. 

She can’t let that happen. It may be selfish, but she doesn’t give a shit. If he doesn’t experience it in the best conditions possible, then he’ll never be able to open up again, should it be emotionally or physically.

She wraps her fingers on his neck, careful not to choke him or touch his throat and pushes him back into the bed, biting a reprimand on his shoulder. A moan answers her, and he turns enough to look at her in the eye. He’s frowning, still trying to understand her motives.

 _He’s not supposed to be able to think._ With that thought, she gives a push on his neck, licking a wet stripe between his shoulder blades, earning a violent shudder and a startled huff. She then kisses the zone, treating him like he’s something precious, someone worthy. Looking up, he’s still half braced on his elbows, and wringing his neck trying to observe her over his shoulder. Making her way upwards, peppering his skin with kisses, she stills before his lips, her eye searching his.

Giving him that last piece of information, she kisses him, biting his lips a maybe too forcefully because she’s a bit out of her element, and he gives finally completely in. 

He flops back down and angles his hips to get better friction with her still giving the pace. Going faster is pointless, the waves of pleasure come through repetition of the same movement, over and over again. Going faster would only disrupt the rhythm and she’d have to start over.

His neck still in her palm, she lets her other hand caress his butt above the covers, raking her nails on his cheeks, before going up, and on repeat. Sensing him approaching the finish line, she snakes her hands under his armpits to grab his shoulders, and begins to rock her hips with more force, same pace, burying his hips each time deeper in the covers. She rests her head in the nape of his neck, and feels him reach her with his right hand to bury his fingers in her hair.

His orgasm catches him with full force, the wave starting from between his legs to spread out like water on his abs, back, neck, to make him finally clench his fingers around her hair. She senses it all, her hips stuttering with his, all his back tensing under her body, his shoulders arched towards her, making her bite down on the offered piece of skin. He arches, lifting her partially with him, head completely off the pillow. She watches as his eyes close, his mouth falls open in a silent cry, before he flops back down, completely spent.

She rocks her hips several times again to gently let him off, but the moment she feels his legs tremble under her, she stops. Oversensitivity.

Instead, she peppers kisses on his jaw, eyebrow, cheek, ear, before murmuring one last time, “You did good.” She bends a bit more forward and kiss him gently on the lips, taking in his blissed out expression, he looks two seconds away from a well-deserved passing out. She kisses him on the nose, amused by the cute scrunch she gets in response and bites one last time on his ear. “Thank you for letting me do that.” She softly says, before caressing his hair. “You can rest now.”

Both of them being sweaty doesn’t stop her from draping herself on his back until he goes back to sleep peacefully.

And if in the morning he wakes up with changed sweatpants and her still there, sleeping on her side, and he decides to spoon her to go back to sleep, waking her up, she can’t help but hope, that it maybe, _maybe_ , means one day he’ll be confident enough to take care of her like she showed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> No seriously, taking care of someone can come through physical contact, i think it's the second step after talking. And a massage is always a good option, if the other person's okay with it, and does appreciate you on an emotional level. (Don't start accepting massages from strangers -except if you payed them for it)  
> For someone liking giving massages, it's always really gratifying when the person fall asleep under me. Means I'm doing a good job. 
> 
> For the second part.... It's kinda a fantasy/something I would like to experience, and I had this dream where this happened with those two, so I decided that yeah,fuck it,I'm going to write that down.  
> And also, there were no gender roles in that, no expectations, no you gotta do this, do that to please your partner, and for me, what those two protagonists experienced was sex, or a sexual experience. There was trust, care, pleasure, emotions. The whole package.  
> But, seriously, don't do it if you're not certain of the response. Read the mood, and work on your hips twist.   
> This fanfict just bled out of me, the words pouring out, I started writing it this morning and I edited it a bit before posting it the same day. What you do when you have so much else to do, n'est-ce pas? 
> 
> Peace out !


End file.
